


Britain's Favourite Summer Cup

by weeesi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apologies to Pimm's, Bathtubs, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock Roulette, Lestrade makes a minor appearance, M/M, Made For Each Other, Masturbation, Underwater Blow Jobs, that becomes an above-water blow job?, the physics are dubious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-06 07:44:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11031726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeesi/pseuds/weeesi
Summary: Sherlock clears his throat and widens his stance. The Belstaff hides the evidence, as it were, and he feels the heavy weight between his legs with a uniquely curious awareness, as though he’d been caught nicking sweets and is now forced to empty his pockets in public.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was drinking a Pimm's cup and hadn't written any fic for four months and thought: fuck it. They can't have this too.
> 
> To be clear: I have no relationship to Pimm's in any way. This fic is not intended nor should it be understood by the reader to be an endorsement or recommendation of it, or vice versa, et cetera.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John laughs. “Fancy a dip?”

John laughs. “Fancy a dip?”

“In a tepid pool of likely not two but _three_ strains of cryptosporidium mixed with bird droppings and leftover bits of last night’s chips, all delightfully stewed in Pimm’s-coloured water? I’d rather not spend the afternoon face-first in the toi—”

“Point taken, thanks.” John winces at the thought and at the late-summer heat. He wipes at the back of his neck with a hand. “Christ. Is that a dead….thing. There.”

“We can only hope, lest the future biological stability of the United Kingdom suffer fools.”

“…em-hm.”

John, all thighs and knees and decidedly non-wobbly bits, bends to examine the corpse strung out alongside the in-ground pool tucked into a back garden in Mayfair, and Sherlock feels a flush flood the length of his spine. His cheeks heat as he allows his eyes a quick wander across—John’s—p-e-r-—f-e-c-t——b—u—m—

“…wouldn’t it, you think?” John finishes.

Sherlock clears his throat and widens his stance. The Belstaff hides the evidence, as it were, and he feels the heavy weight between his legs with a uniquely curious awareness, as though he’d been caught nicking sweets and is now forced to empty his pockets in public. 

_See, John? What do you to me? I’ve got proof._

“He obviously felt strongly about it,” Sherlock answers without asking for a repeat of the question, and strides around to the far side of the pool. John’s brow furrows — never a solid indication of the quality of Sherlock’s response as John often has confusing physical responses to Sherlock’s behaviour — but John says nothing, instead reaching to the dead man’s sad and soaked toupee. 

_Clever John._

“How ‘bout this then?” A pitiful dripping from the soggy hairpiece. “What, with a full head of hair?” John looks up from the body and locks eyes with Sherlock across the pool. 

And suddenly: Sherlock realises he’s squatting with the coat shoved off of his thighs, his knees spread out, spread wide, and John is at the perfect vantage point for…to see…to _see_ —

As a diversion, Sherlock pokes a brave finger into the water and splishes it round. 

John watches transfixed. He can’t, apparently, look away.

Sherlock, equally unable, brings his long, thin finger to his mouth and sucks on it.

“Sherlock! What the hell—”

“No need to worry, John. Pimm’s.”

“What?!”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Sherlock says, not unkindly.

“The pool water is _Pimm’s_?”

Sherlock shrugs and carelessly wipes the finger across his trousers. “Must’ve been a helluva ranger.”

“ _Rager_ ,” John corrects, and stands. Sherlock is caught looking this time, he’s sure, but John keeps talking, John says, his tone incredulous, “They filled the pool with _Britain’s favourite summer cup_.”

Overhead, the iron-dark clouds heavy with rain decide to part and let through a burst of sunlight, which hits the water like a strobe. It does the favour of highlighting some rather unsavoury floating bits that perhaps at one time were chopped fruits.

“It _once_ was Britain’s favourite summer cup; now it’s evidence. Right, Lestrade needs a hounding before everything of importance washes away,” Sherlock scoffs, spotting the Met’s finest as they scramble over the lackluster hedges. “Proper people use the gate!” he shouts at them. “Go on, John.”

“Why?”

“I’ll not be a minute.” As soon as he's faced with the back of John’s head, Sherlock reaches a hand into the Belstaff pocket, reaches across, and readjusts himself.

 _As bad as a schoolboy_ , he thinks, _and as hopeless_.

 

 

***

 

John practically rips the door off of the toilet stall in his effort to lock it. 

“Jesus fucking bollocks,” he mumbles as he fiddles with the latch. _I want a quick fiddle and not with a cubicle latch,_ he nearly laughs aloud in the men’s loos back at Scotland Yard. _I’ve gone absolutely mad with it._

Biting at his bottom lip, he tears the zip down his flies and shoves a hand into the v-opening on the front of his pants. It takes three minutes, less — John has nothing if not a long-held and efficient knowledge of his body — and it’s not especially gentle, but the chafing somehow serves to numb the usual waterfall of wanking thoughts just that much more. 

_I’ve got to stop thinking of him sucking me off. He’s not interested, he told me so that first night. He's not interested. So what if he’s gorgeous. So what if I can’t see myself with anyone else. Christ, it’s been a year! A fucking full year and I’ve got to—quit—it’s not—he’s never going to suck—me—o-f-f—ffffffff—he’s—nev-er—go-i-n-g—to—w-a-n-t—m—-e—-_

“John?” A door opens and then few curt knocks. Lestrade. Nothing more a necessary bullet to kill an impending orgasm than a Detective Inspector waiting expectantly on the other side of a toilet cubicle door. 

Rather wilted, both in ambition and in length, John clears his throat before he answers. “Yeah.” _Swallow. Swallow. He’d. I know he, Sherlock would swall—STOP._ “Yeah.”

“Sherlock left.”

“Brilliant,” he says, and under his breath, “…had to come in here to tell me…” but Lestrade doesn’t hear.

“Want me to call up an unmarked for you?”

“I’ll take a cab.”

“You should tell him, you know.”

For a gut-wrenching second, John imagines Lestrade has been curled up in the corner of the loo listening to his clandestine hand-do this entire time. _God have I said something aloud?_

“Tell him what,” he manages, tucking and zipping as quietly as he can.

“That you hate it.” 

 _Helpful, Lestrade._ “Hate it?” John unlatches the door and opens it to find Lestrade leaning against the wall opposite the sole urinal. He makes to wash and dry his hands, a pantomime to calm the pace of his heart.

Lestrade shrugs. “He’s always leaving you behind, isn’t he. Running off. It’s his nature.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?” They walk together out of the men’s toilets and down the corridor to a small waiting area filled with a cornucopia of police-sanctioned decor lit under strange angles. “You’ve been together—“

“—we’re not together—“

“—for over a year now and he doesn’t respect—“

“—I don’t need anything from him—“

“—your needs.” Lestrade stops in front of the exit doors. “Mates try to…I dunno…look out for their mates, I guess.”

“What do you know about mates?” John lifts an arm as he spots a cab. 

“Had a few myself,” Lestrade winks.

Much later, John wonders just what he meant.

 

***

 

“John?” Sherlock mumbles, half-asleep.

Unfortunately, John is nowhere to be found, and Sherlock tries to remember why. 

Upon returning from NSY the afternoon prior, Sherlock worked on the case for the remainder of the evening and through the night. He couldn’t recall when John arrived back at the flat, but did remember he had shouted down three requests from Mrs. Hudson to _please stop stamping about at four-thirty in god’s beautiful bloody morning_ and two requests from John to _shut up and drink the antibiotic, you tasted that poisoned Pimm’s water_ and _you could die,_ after which Sherlock had downloaded and rage-printed an entire report on the statistical likelihood of dying from cryptosporidium to shove beneath John’s cooling cuppa. Eventually Sherlock flopped down on the sofa in the throes of a legendary strop, had at some point apparently slept, and only now was reemerging from the dark grasp of obstinance.

“John?” he tries again, softer this time. _What is it…catch flies with honey?_ Something like that.

Nothing. The flat is as quiet as a catacomb. 

 _Well. This won’t do_.

He pushes himself up from the cushiony shell of the sofa cushions and listens again, certain he’s alone. “John, I’ll have you know—” he says to nobody in particular but most certainly ghost-John as he shuffles into the kitchen and cracks his fifth and sixth vertebrae, “—that the probable explanation for the victim using the toupee isn’t society’s expectations—” he palms the handle on the door to the loo, “—but more likely the fact that he wasn’t—oh.” Honestly surprised, he takes a step backwards.

Oh.

John _is_ in the flat after all. He’s been in the bath. Definitely in the bath. He’s in the bath at the moment, indeed.

_Oh._

He’s. 

The words erupt from a visceral, animal part of Sherlock’s psyche. “I can see your cock.”

Pink and thick, it rests in John’s hand, where sandalwood-scented bubbles delicately kiss the tip. Ironically, sandalwood is the primary scent in Sherlock’s shampoo.

Ironically. 

Oh.

John is completely, utterly still: as though cast in marble, as though a lifetime has come and gone and measured time is a remote, forgotten thing.

“You were,” he chokes.

“You.”

Both men pause.

After an age, John whispers, “Do you know what you’re doing.”

“I.” Sherlock breathes. He is made of treacle. He’s a man made of sugar syrup. A pile of bones and hot, melty goo.

John flexes his forearm.

_Wet._

John’s voice rasps unevenly over the geography of his words, low and desperate and wanting and the size of the universe. “If you…keep…standing there….if you don’t want to…go… I’m going to lose my _fucking_ mind.”

Sherlock realises all at once that he stands on a precipice.

He flips down the lid of the toilet, sits, and plants his feet.

_Show me._

“Then lose it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Say it,” Sherlock murmurs.

Marble, and then: bursting.

John feels caught out, nearly lightheaded with the potency of what’s happening. What could happen.  _God,_ the cliff they’ve just jumped off.

And yet.

The lit candle he’s set nearby flickers as he slowly starts in with his usual rhythm, forearm flexing. 

He feels utterly, devoutly mad. 

In the back of his mind he knows he’ll only last a minute, maybe, with Sherlock in the room. He doesn’t care. He couldn’t be arsed. He’ll make a list of everything else in the world, minutiae included, that he cares about more than how long he’ll last with Sherlock in the room except he can’t because there are no other things in the world and there never have been other than Sherlock in the room with him, at this moment, right…. _now_.

“Say it,” Sherlock murmurs. On his face a look John’s never seen before.

“I didn’t know you were awak—”

“No. Say what you’re thinking.”

“I want you to watch me.”

“What else.”

“Take off your shirt,” John says.

He almost can’t believe it: Sherlock watching him. _Sherlock._ Sat there, with dark eyes that cling to the lines of John’s shoulders, his chest, the island mounds of his rough-skinned knees against the white porcelain. Sherlock openly staring at John’s bare, stiff prick. Sherlock wanting. 

A wild thing, caught and pleading, beats at the base of John’s spine as the air between them burns.

Sherlock nods his head but doesn’t look away; as he dips his chin he reaches for the cuffs at the wrists of his shirt. Slender fingers slowly brush over skin as they feel for their marks.

John flexes his toes underwater. 

_Have you ever wanted something with a desperation that consumes you._

Sherlock had asked him that once, a long time ago. Hadn’t thought of it since, but—he’d said:

_I have done. I do._

In the history of the natural world unbuttoning two buttons has never taken as long as it takes now: one pushed out, then _out_ , then the other found and pinched and pushed, and Sherlock’s rolling his shoulders, pulling at the creases in his shirtsleeves from the wrist to the elbow. He rubs the folds smooth over and over and over. His face says nothing John can’t recognise as anything other than shameless _want._

Greedy, John gives himself another meaningful stroke.

“Wait.”

He stops at Sherlock’s voice. The taps drip. The bathroom is 400 degrees and cramped — Sherlock’s too big with his too-big body, he’s sucked all the air out of the room — and John’s mouth is dry. Sherlock cocks his head and moves his hands to the centre line of his button-down. “Don’t hurry.” 

Agony, as John watches and keeps his hand still on his cock until Sherlock, button by button, bares for him his _pale-throat-the-dip-of-his-collarbone-his-muscled-shoulder-crossing-pink-nipple-to-nipple-on-his-broad-chest-over-to-muscled-shoulder-the-lines-of-his-arms-hollows-of-his-elbows-let-me-see-you-let-me-find-new-places-to-want-you_ and Sherlock, watching back, drops the shirt to the floor next to where he’s sat on the folded-down lid of the toilet. For the first time: John knows the clear outline of him. He can see the bulge of Sherlock’s prick through his bespoke pair of trousers.

_He’s…hard._

John’s mouth floods. Forgetting himself, he rubs the ball of his thumb along the base of his cock and drags skin-against-skin all the way to the flushed tip. “Would you…stand up.”

Sherlock stands. 

John breathes through his nose and aches. He catches the air in his lungs.

Sherlock dips his head, brings hands to his waist, and casts his eyes down at John’s fist. “Show me,” looks up, coal-dark, “so I can see.”

John moves his thumb away and lets Sherlock, eyes-wide-lips-parted, get his fill. Shows off. Fucks into his fist, low hips thrusting up, up, _u-p—_

_His eyes his mouth him him him him his hands on me—fuck-ing—_

_Wait. Don’t hurry._

“Trousers next.” John slurs the words as water sloshes unsteady up the sides of the bathtub. He loosens his grip. His face feels hot.

Sherlock quirks the corner of his mouth and smiles.

It’s like being bashed in the side of the head with a cricket bat, so consuming is the blank-brain lust clawing its way out of the pit of John’s belly and turning his limbs into heavy limp things. He couldn’t catch himself if he tried; he’ll crash and burn and explode after and queue up to do it again. His head falls back against the tiled wall. 

John says, “If you like.”

Belt already undone, Sherlock’s working on his flies. A zip or buttons or—and John can’t care because he’s going to lose it, he can’t possibly— he can’t help it; he pulls at himself once, twice, again, again, and says “I need to” as Sherlock’s breathes out, “you use my shampoo,” and Sherlock shimmies the waistband down— _hips and—thighs—his ankles, of all things—there’s the—there’s his pants the shape of his—Sherlock’s—cock—his long—hard—_

_Wet. Wet already._

John reaches for the sandalwood shampoo as Sherlock reaches inside his pants and pulls it out.

How he didn’t spontaneously come, John doesn’t have time to wonder, because Sherlock is holding himself, tracing the length of himself, _showing_ John: peach-plum sweet soft skin, foreskin pushing back to reveal the head of his cock pink and _wet_ —, and Sherlock wraps one hand round for John and the other goes up to gesture, open-handed.

Sherlock’s voice vibrates through John’s chest. “I’ll have some.”

The shampoo bottle. Palm to palm. 

“If I...touch you, I’m going to…” John sputters and tightens the fist wrapped around his aching cock, “ _fuck_ , I…”

Another twitch of fingers, wrist, upper lip. “You want to.” Sherlock, bare-footed, moves closer.

John’s lungs are in a vice. “I want to,” he whispers.

“I want you to.”

Pinned alive, pulse fluttering, John reaches—over—

—and Sherlock makes an utterly desperate noise in the back of his throat—

—as John’s fingers come to slide—

—against—

—hot—

—smooth-silk—

—skin—

—one, two, three, four fingers, the palm of his hand, _the palm of his hand_ —

—and John starts to jack them off together, shatteringly slow as Sherlock’s head drops back chin up, thick pink cock and long pink cock, one in each of two hands wet with sandalwood-scented water. John watches the way Sherlock’s ribs expand, the way his belly rises, the needy jut of his hips, and supposes he’s half-way gone before Sherlock looks down again at John’s hands.

Long eyelashes, and. _And._ His mouth, on a drawn-out breath.

“Can I.” He pauses. 

_Nothing in the world except this, this now, you. You you you._

“Can I.” Sherlock echoes.

_I’m going to lose my fucking mind._

He leans down and he leans up; they meet. Pressing unpracticed, they kiss open-mouthed.

_I have. I do._

They kiss, and kiss, and _kiss_ , and John tastes Sherlock all-over in his mouth and Sherlock presses him down, deeper into the bathwater as he leans over the side of the tub, his muscled shoulders, his arms braced over John’s shoulders, kissing him kissing him kissing him kissing him kissing him until John’s throat is tight, his chest is heaving, soaked and shaking and randy and wanting _to kiss_ and Sherlock cups John’s wet head in both hands, caught-ears between fingers and kisses him open-mouthed, deep.

“I’m,” John moans, shallow, “not going to last, I’m—” and “c _hrist Sherlock,”_ and suddenly water is everywhere and Sherlock has one leg in the tub, foot slipping on the bottom beneath the back of John’s knees, body bent in half, half-crouched over John stretched out beneath him. Secret shaking thighs and his insane need to _know, to know him, the bastard, the fucking love of my life_ and as Sherlock’s lips find the skin of John’s jaw, his neck, John’s hand again finds the shaft of Sherlock’s prick and he pulls at him, strokes him solid. Presses his face into the bundle of muscle above Sherlock’s knee, where his bottom lip catches and drags his mouth open. “I’ve gone mad with wanting you,” he mumbles, delirious, caught on fire, as Sherlock bends and bends and bends and bends as trembling thigh he steps the other foot into the water between John’s legs, bends with hands _under_ for two handfuls of John’s— _a-r-s-e_ —with John’s hands hot on Sherlock’s back, wanting his plush—and Sherlock with pants on cock out in the tub with John and getting wet, wetter— _g-o-d_ —as Sherlock lifts—up— _oh_ —and holds John’s hips—lifting—u-p—and reaches for John’s mouth with his mouth—but—misses—he’s—his mouth is—and John gasps—

“Oh—my fuck— _ing_ — _god_ ,” as Sherlock’s lips ease around the head of John’s cock.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock: filling up.

_Have you ever wanted something with a desperation that consumes you._

_Have you._

_Have you._

Sherlock: filling up. Heart beating out of his body. He wants to drown in the sensation of John’s cock thick and heavy on his tongue, pressed up against soft palate; drink him in, swallow around him. The rich warm fullness. The gliding-rub of skin. The press of bollocks against his chin. The smell of sandalwood. The _noises_. 

Hands full, mouth full, brain full of John’s arse John’s cock John’s body he’s bent over awkward in the bathtub. John’s head lolling back with the curve of his mouth open panting ( _fucking god oh my fucking god fucking god,_ John devotes) and then the divinely knowing way John lifts hips _just—that—bit—more_ —and Sherlock tastes another burst of salt at the back of his tongue: the inside secret sweet-salt taste of the man he’s loved and loves and loves—

“ _Sher_ —” John is gasping and Sherlock wants to be the best, the most perfect, as he sucks at the head of John’s cock, nearly tucked in half between two splayed legs in their too-small-for-two tub. Hands over hands on bare bodies, John’s skin at his sides, at the curves of his ankles, touching him there and there and here and here he finds skin pressed against skin. Sucks him in —deeper— and John rewards him with scrambling hands at the places where shoulder and neck meet; they catch at the warm muscle and squeeze as Sherlock tongues at John’s soft underneath, blood-warm and scented, pulls John in his mouth gently again, again, again, again, again, again, with hollowed out cheeks, so good, so _wanted, so good for him._

John shudders and breathes and pushes deeper ever-so-slightly-deeper and Sherlock remembers he has one too, a cock, an aching hard cock that floats between the crook of his thighs in the water where he’s bent down to his knees, and he jolts with the new awareness of how much he wants his body to know itself, know what it is to—be—not—just—a—brain—and Sherlock wants to _come._ Wants to see John come.

_I have done._

_I do._

“I’m—I want—you—” John groans as Sherlock fumbles with one hand, eager to tug at himself without dropping a palmful of John’s arse: impossible. John reaches to grab under the wings of Sherlock’s shoulder blades, lifting, “—out, let’s out—“

Head lifts up: kissing, then. Searing deep-wet kissing, and they forget about cocks except for the taste of John passed back and forth between them. They kiss noses bumping in a mostly empty bathtub and don’t-want-but-do-want-but-don’t-want it to end eternally after the next moment, the next, the next. Just a bit…longer and then, surging again, John groans, throaty:

“I want you to come—“

“Lose—“

“—come on me—in me—come with me—“

“—lose your—mind—“

and somehow rustling-rolling-bruising-falling up and over and out of the bathtub splayed wet and shaking on the floor: John’s head in Sherlock’s hands as they land gracelessly in a heap, all limbs and _wanting things, wanting—h-i-m—_ and Sherlock smears his mouth against John’s mouth, messy. Needing.

John, on his back on the soaked cotton mat, slides under as he pulls Sherlock’s heavy long-lean body over; he draws him close, up on top, pressed chest to chest thighs to thighs and then the soft swell of belly pushes into still stiff cock and John’s mouth falls open against the notch of Sherlock’s collarbone.

“Touch me,” Sherlock wants. 

John moans bone-deep hot clouds against skin. He kisses at the throb of pulse in Sherlock’s throat as he slips a hand down—between—and then—

“Pants—“ and Sherlock shifting weight onto a forearm they scramble thumbs into waterlogged waistband, shoving down the _mother-fucking-pants_ offensively stuck against Sherlock’s thighs—cock— _slipping—out_ —then caught-on-long—pale—toes _—_

—and finally—

bare.

John turns and tucks his head to dip out a soft pad of tongue, licking— _tasting_ —and Sherlock makes an ancient, guttural sound. 

John’s fingers wrap around his prick and he’s splitting clean open; John’s fingers squeeze and he’s shattering; John’s fingers push John’s cock and his cock together and he’s spinning-strung-out-bursting as John caresses, guides his hips, lines Sherlock’s arse with imprints of palmprints—he’s—against— _his hips_ are—sloppy thrust— _thrusting_ —with his hand—fuck—f-u-c-k—

_I want you to lose your mind. Show me._

—and they’re grinding hips together there, on the floor, on a soaked cotton bathmat next to a nearly-empty bathtub, cock against cock against belly against belly against thigh against thigh and Sherlock pulls John into a kiss shaking arms holding up holding together and John kisses back, beneath him, soppy and laid out _kisses him_ , and Sherlock pumps his hips sliding slick soap-pre-come-wet against John’s cock plum-pink and aching and Sherlock pumps his hips and John’s head falls back neck stretched chest open and Sherlock clenching arse against John thrusting rutting hungry _fucking_ John holds and holds and holds and holds and then— _overcome_ —

—he—looks—u—p—

—and sees—the—

—m-o-m-e-n-t—on—his—face—

—in—his—

—eyes—

—the—

—feeling—of—

— _knowing_ —

 

—the cliff is behind them—

 

—the precipice—

 

—and Sherlock clings to John’s clinging **as they plummet** —

 

— _ **eyes-open-swelling-white-hot-trembling-taut-tight-touching-straining-spinning-heaving-violet-bursting-feeling-pure-clenching-pleasure-shaking-shivering-electric-muscle-fibre-lit-up-tingling-scalp-to-spine-tides-of-tensing-tensing-tensing-tensing-tensing-tensing—tensing**_ —

 

— ** _and_** —

 

— ** _tensing_** —

 

— _ti-p-ping_ —

 

—r-e-l-e-a-s-i-n-g————-

 

—f.  l.  o.   a.  t.  i.  n.  g —

 

—into: 

 

…sheer….

 

…quiet….

 

…bliss.

 

_Oh. There you are._

 

They lie stunned, all-together hushed. Waiting patiently for limbs to unlatch, forgetting they won’t.

“I’ve gone mad…with…wanting you,” Sherlock echoes into John’s chest, just above where heart lies.

“You.” It’s all John can say.

 

***

 

Two days later, and the August heat surges with a vengeance. All the windows and doors are propped open wide when John reaches the landing at the top of the steps up to the flat. He passes the carrier bag from hand to hand and rounds his shoulders, tenses: still sore. 

_Good._

Seeing John, Sherlock winds his way round the debris in the sitting room from his perch on the back of his chair. 

“Toupee wasn’t his,” he says by way of greeting. “Jealous brother.”

“Yeah s’no trouble at all, just went over to Melcombe,” John mutters, feigning annoyance, as he plops the bag down on the cluttered kitchen table. “Didn’t mind stopping off after a double, Tube packed to the gills with smelly people, and literally nothing—” but Sherlock wraps his arms about John’s waist, pulls him into a kiss: pliant, and thankful, and newly familiar. 

“Hoped you’d do that. Don’t ever stop doing that.” 

So he does it again.

“That’s that,” John says, “about that.”

Sherlock noses at him. Another long, age-less kiss.

Content.

“What’d you want cucumbers for?”

With a tiny smirk, Sherlock leads him down the corridor to the loo, dark except for a few lit candles. Clean floor. Dry mat. The bath—the water currently filling it up—looks suspicious.

“…you didn’t.” John clicks on the lamp. _Just the lighting._ “I’d thought you’d filled the tub with—”

“Britain’s favourite summer cup.” Sherlock clears his throat, all very proper, hands clasped at the small of his back. “I thought for before. And after.” He looks over and reaches for John. Winks.

Sat on the side of the tub are two glasses beaded with condensation: Pimm’s.

Some floaty bits, no cucumbers.

Yet. 


End file.
